


Dirty Magic

by Tcharlatan



Category: Dir en grey
Genre: Angst, Band Fic, Breathplay, Cutting, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional, Hand Jobs, Inspired by Music, Kinbaku (Japanese Rope Bondage), M/M, Obsession, Oral Sex, Personal Favorite, Rope Bondage, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tcharlatan/pseuds/Tcharlatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Die knew he shouldn’t answer the call. He knew this never-ending cycle of loveless lust, violence, and degradation had been slowly poisoning him for years, and that he should pull out of it before it inevitably destroyed him. But he also knew – as he’d always known – that he could never refuse Kyo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Magic

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of pure fiction. I do not personally know any of the members of Dir en grey, and do not profit from this work.

_In my own simple way, I think he wants me only; he says 'come over right away.' But he's just not that way - his little soul is stolen - see him put on a brand new face. Pull the shades, razor blades, you're so tragic. I hate you so but love you more, I'm so elastic._

_[Come over tonight.]_

Die stared at his phone, feeling his heart sink, cold and hard like lead in his chest. He knew he shouldn’t answer the call. He knew he should end this game before it even started. He knew this never-ending cycle of loveless lust, violence, and degradation had been slowly poisoning him for years, and that he should pull out of it before it inevitably destroyed him. But still, upon receiving the text message, his hands had pulled on his shoes and jacket, had gathered his keys and locked the door behind him. His feet had carried him, sure and steady despite his internal conflict, to this apartment building.

Because he also knew – as he’d always known – that he could never refuse Kyo.

Tucking his phone back into his pocket, he stepped into the elevator with a profound sense of resignation settling over him. When the car began to lift, it almost felt as if his very soul was dropping out of him, remaining on the ground floor and leaving him empty to face his greatest sin. As it tore free, there was a brief moment where the pain of the truth was so great, he was certain he might just break down crying. That passed quickly, though, and he rose to meet his fate in somber silence. The doors hissed open on the top floor, and he followed the familiar path to the end of the hall, keeping his head bowed as he rapped his knuckles twice on the apartment door. A muffled voice answered from within, and he let himself in.

The faint smell of incense – Kyo’s favored sandalwood blend – met him, and he inhaled it deeply as he toed off his shoes in the entryway, slipping on a pair of simple white guest slippers and hanging his jacket. No matter how many apartments he’d lived in or how many hotels he’d stayed in, no matter what cologne or soaps he was using at the time, no matter what else changed over the years, Kyo’s space had always carried this scent at its heart. Even his bunk on the tour bus came to smell like incense, though it was impossible for him to have burned it there. More addictive and infinitely deadlier than the nicotine he’d fought so hard to give up, the scent triggered so many feelings in Die; so much warmth, so much pain, so much desperation and hunger and despair and _yearning_. As long as he lived, the smell of sandalwood would always strike him directly to the core.

The younger man was not there to meet him, but Die knew where he was expected. He moved past the living room; that was where Kyo entertained friends, and they were not friends tonight. Moved past the bedroom, because that was where Kyo took his lovers, and they were certainly not lovers. Never had been, and in his more disheartened moments, Die was sure they never would be. His place was a room tucked at the end of the hall, one that – as far as he knew – was reserved for him and him alone. The door slid open smoothly to his pull, revealing warm amber sunset spilling in through the open window, streaking across the tatami floor. The room was, as always, utterly bare, and when Die moved to stand in the center of it, the golden glow of the dying day felt almost mystical.

“Take your clothes off, Daisuke.”

The familiar voice came from the doorway, unannounced but entirely unsurprising. In this room, very little could startle Die. Slowly, diffidently, he began to strip down, his gaze never leaving the splash of warm yellow on the floor. Each article of clothing he removed was folded and set aside with care before the next was seen to, until all of his belongings were in a neat stack in one corner and he was left entirely naked for Kyo’s scrutiny. And scrutinize he did, pacing in a leisurely circle around his guest like a great cat contemplating its next kill; strength, confidence, and wicked intent rolling off of him. Die spared the blonde a glance on one pass – finding him dressed simply, in loose black cargo pants and a wifebeater, his features entirely inscrutable – but for the most part, kept his eyes lowered. The feel of that too-knowing stare on him sent a shallow wave of shivers up his spine. 

At length, Kyo’s circling began to narrow, until he was within arm’s reach. Die remained still, complacent, but when fingertips reached out to brush over his skin in passing, he couldn’t help the faint tremors that worked their way through his entire frame. Fear. Regret. Desire. Sorrow. Need. It all hit him at once with that first touch; a rush of emotions at once too complicated to process and too basic to ignore. This was how it always was with Kyo. The fingertips gradually became fingers, then a full palm running over him – trailing over tense muscles and straining tendons, brushing through shoulder-length brunette hair – exploring every nuance of his body within reach as if committing it to memory.

Kyo came to a stop behind Die and pressed lightly on his shoulder, murmuring, “On your knees.”

Die sank to his knees gracefully, hands resting on his thighs. Kyo moved away for a moment, drawing the curtains across the window and cutting off the golden sunset from the room, leaving them with only muted grey light that filtered through the fabric. When he returned, he dropped himself to one knee at Die’s back, drawing a neatly-bundled length of crimson jute rope from one large pocket and unraveling it with a practiced motion. Not the traditional, undyed material that was typically used for this art, but he always rather enjoyed seeing Die in red. A sigh that could have been resignation or anticipation whispered out of the taller man, but Kyo paid it no heed as he set to work.

Mismatched hands – one tattooed, one bare, both long-fingered and surprisingly competent – looped the rope around Die’s neck once, joining the tail ends at his nape and pushing silky brown hair aside to wind them around one another into an almost-noose. From there, the two ends separated, winding down under his upper arms and looping around one another in the middle before drawing tight, pulling his shoulders back and back and back, until his shoulder blades were touching and a shuddering whimper trickled out of his throat. The position wasn’t painful, exactly, but it was deeply, achingly strenuous, and held him in a distinct feeling of helplessness. The rope’s twin tails kept winding their way down, weaving and wrapping around eachother to form elaborate webbing between his arms, locking him firmly in place and rendering the limbs entirely immobile.

When he reached the bottom of Die’s long arms, Kyo set to forming cuffs around the older man’s wrists, reaching up once to test the tension in the line. Circulation was slightly strained, breathing would be hindered if he stretched too far forward, and the pressure would definitely be leaving a couple days’ worth of bruises, but Die was safe enough. Securing the ends of the ropes around the guitarist’s ankles, he stood and paced back in front of him, examining his handiwork. He noted that Die was already half-hard; a conditioned response after so many sessions like this one. The bondage itself certainly never used to turn the older man on.

“Will you be able to keep from screaming?” he wondered.

Die closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. He never could.

Kyo nodded and dug into his pockets once more, this time pulling out a length of thick cloth. He crouched in front of his bandmate, dark gold eyes searching as he held the cloth stretched between both hands. “This is your last chance to ask me to stop.”

Die lifted his head just enough to meet the younger man’s gaze. It pierced him, as always; flayed open his mind and his heart and exposed his very soul to the vocalist until it felt as if his very emotions were bleeding out of him. But that was all there was. Kyo read him so easily, but was himself entirely obscure… locked off. “Don’t stop. Please.”

The cloth was twisted tight and pressed between Die’s teeth, tied securely at the back of his skull. He was shaking badly now, eyes squeezing shut as the third and final piece for this game was drawn from Kyo’s pocket. The knife was a simple but beautiful piece, with a lightly curved blade that tapered to a narrow point, polished to a mirror-bright shine, and elegant black filigree in the shape of a phoenix decorating the grip. It was also kept sharpened to a near-invisible edge.

The blade slid through Die’s flesh so easily, the first cut took a moment to even register. The pale caramel skin under his left pectoral went pale, then split open as the pain finally struck him, his entire body jerking as rich red spilled out of the fresh wound. For this, and the next few cuts over his ribcage, he managed to keep his reactions down to straining against his ropes and muffled whines. But Kyo kept on cutting, slowly and precisely etching half a dozen horizontal cuts across Die’s abdomen, watching with hooded eyes as blood flowed freely over smooth skin. Each new wound was kept at a careful depth, even with the older man’s bucking and frantic panting; enough to bleed and certainly enough to hurt, but never enough to put him at any real risk. After the fourth cut, Die began screaming into his gag. After the sixth, thin tears began trailing down his cheeks. Then Kyo moved up, over the taller man’s heart, and continued his etching, following the paths he’d so often carved into himself.

Die was no masochist. He didn’t get off on bondage or pain; this was nothing but agony for him. He accepted this – answered the call, knowing it would happen, and never once spoke out against it – because he knew that it was all Kyo could give him. He had fallen for the smaller vocalist, as those in the presence of perceived glory and beauty are prone to do, but had come too late. Kyo had been hurt too many times; used, betrayed, cast aside by too many people, until all he could see in himself was his own weakness and lack of worth. His heart had closed up tight against any further suffering, before Die could see what was happening and reach out to stop it. The passion, the talent, the depth was still there, but the sweet smiles, warmth, and easy camaraderie were long gone. By the time Die had worked up the courage to confess his attraction, Kyo had nothing left of himself to offer but pain.

Die knew, all those years ago, just as he knew now, that he should just walk away. That he should turn his attention to a healthier relationship, let go of the memories of who Kyo had once been and the hope that he could ever be that person again and seek happiness elsewhere, because none would be found here. But he was too far gone… too far lost in the siren’s song, too deeply pierced by burnt-gold eyes, too thoroughly addicted to ever let go. He didn’t know how it had come to this… Kyo had never offered to hurt him – never even really seemed to _want_ to, necessarily – and he had certainly never asked for it, but somehow, it was what ended up happening; something only they shared. So he accepted this bondage – Kyo’s weakness – and this bloodshed – Kyo’s pain – and learned to embrace it, because it was the closest he could ever come to what he so badly craved.

It was _something_ to cling to; a vicious cycle, but one that gave him a wretched sort of hope that things might get better one day, and his love might be accepted, if not reciprocated.

“Daisuke…” Kyo muttered, reaching out his free hand to trail through the crimson stain covering the older man. “You have… beautiful blood, do you know that? So beautiful…”

Die was sobbing by now. It was a soft sound between his muffled screams, low and deep-seated, punctuated by ragged breathing from a runny nose, and every motion aggravated his wounds. Kyo leaned in then, nuzzling lightly at his cheek, and Die pressed into the touch desperately for the brief second that it lingered there before the younger man rose to his feet. Die looked up at the blonde with anguish shining bright in his eyes, and Kyo responded by unzipping his pants, easing his hard length from cloth confines and stroking himself languidly. Even through his pain, Die felt his mouth begin to water around the gag at this display of licentious sadism and canted his head to one side in equal parts supplication and offering.

“Making pretty faces at me again…” Kyo reached out to tug off Die’s gag, then fisted his free hand in long brunette locks. “Do you want to suck me off?”

“Yes,” Die whispered shakily.

“Reach for it. Maybe, if you try very hard, I’ll give you what you want.”

And Die obliged. He strained forward, intent on Kyo’s arousal, the rope around his neck tightening and the hand in his hair holding him back with a stinging grip. He was close, so close he could smell sandalwood and male musk, and his mouth fell open, his tongue reaching out for what he wanted so badly, never knowing that in that moment he was the perfect picture of dissolute obscenity. Kyo held him steady in that fraught limbo, letting him forward bare millimeters at a time, until the very tip of the guitarist’s tongue could flick over the very tip of his cock, collecting the bead of fluid that had gathered there and sending a shiver through him. He watched Die’s strawberry tongue suck back into his mouth then, taking in that little drop of precum as if it were the sweetest honey, savoring it before beginning his struggles anew.

“Shhh, Daisuke,” Kyo murmured. “Shhh…”

Slowly, oh-so-goddamn-slowly, Kyo allowed Die to engulf his ache, and the bound man set to work the moment heated flesh touched his lips. He licked and sucked and swallowed everything he could reach, eyes watering from the grip on his hair, face flushed from constricted airways, bleeding and completely unconcerned with his own wounds. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered anymore, nothing mattered but Kyo’s heat in his mouth, Kyo’s song in his ears, Kyo’s scent in his nose, and the knowledge that their shared pain would soon become their shared pleasure. He looked up as he labored, watching dark gold eyes drift shut as the blonde’s head tipped forward in bliss, the hand in his hair now providing support rather than restriction. Kyo’s lips parted, allowing a soft groan to spill out, and his hips took to shallow thrusting in and out of the mouth that dragged him ever closer to his peak.

The heated suction and writhing tongue working him over were pure ecstasy, but it was the quiet, wet sounds of suction and Die’s faint choking noises every time the head of his cock pressed a little too deep into the man’s throat proved to be Kyo’s undoing. He gritted his teeth, hissing, and flexed the hand restraining Die’s head into a tight fist, cum spurting in waves into that heavenly mouth. Die did his level best to swallow all that he was given, but Kyo’s thrusting motions made it difficult, and a thin trail of sticky white escaped the corner of his lips to drip down his chin.

Kyo allowed Die to lick him clean before pulling away, fixing his pants back up unhurriedly. He moved over to the window and pulled the curtains back open, allowing the now-crimson light of the sunset back into the room before moving towards the door. “Stay quiet.”

And Die watched, utterly distraught, as the younger man left the room, shutting the door behind him. He was still bound, his shoulders tight and aching from the strain of being pulled so far back, his skin cold and numb from the restricted circulation. He was still bleeding, his chest one solid expanse of stinging fire that flared up with every inhale. He was still hard, his erection jutting angrily from between his legs, dripping, throbbing, an almost painful pressure under his belly as he was left teetering on the razor edge of orgasm. He was hurting and he was lonely and he cried for it; a gentle, unobtrusive sound that whispered through the empty room, calling for respite that would never come.

As everything else, he had accepted the use of his mouth – Kyo’s violation – and now was in the final phase, the hardest one for him to accept and the one that put the greatest pressure on his soul. This was Kyo’s hopelessness. This was the belief that love brought only weakness, pain, and violation and left you alone in the end, bleeding and broken; this was the suffering that Kyo had closed himself off to hide from. In this moment, Die struggled to understand why the vocalist chose to do these things to him. Was it a punishment, for trying to love him? For being too late? Was he paying for the sins of those who’d come before him? Was Kyo trying to push him away? To save him from the inevitable torment love brought? Or was he simply trying to share himself with Die? Trying to connect in the only way he knew?

It didn’t matter, in the end. Die accepted it because it was Kyo’s and, as far as he was concerned, he had no choice in the matter. From the day they’d first met, he could never refuse Kyo. The tears dried, breathing slowed to a deep, even pace, and Die wallowed quietly in his misery.

Maybe Kyo had been listening to Die cry, or maybe he just had a knack for feeling the emotional shift in the air, but he returned shortly after the bound man settled down. He stood in the doorway for a long time, taking in the sight of his bandmate kneeling in the sunset’s bloody glow. Even tied this way – so helpless, so vulnerable, covered in blood, tears dried to his cheeks, disheveled hair hanging around downturned eyes – Die was possessed with an omnipresent sense of grace and determination. Or maybe it was _because_ of his current position…? Either way, it was a captivating sight. The guitarist lifted his gaze slowly, meeting Kyo’s and pleading wordlessly for clemency. The blonde moved forward, coming to rest on his knees in front of the older man, one hand stroking over his cheek gently.

“You want to cum, don’t you Daisuke?”

Die closed his eyes and pressed into the hand gratefully. “Yes… please…”

“But you’re perfect this way… standing on the edge of pleasure and pain, torn apart… Bleeding. Broken. Defiled. You look like an angel with its wings ripped off, bathed in this hellish light…” Kyo mused, almost more to himself than to Die. “You’ve always been beautiful in red.”

“It hurts…”

“Shhh, I know it does. I know.”

Kyo reached down his free hand and wrapped it around Die’s arousal, stroking with a torturous slowness. Die leaned into him, sacrificing some of his ability to breathe for the privilege of pressing his face into the crook of Kyo’s neck, and the vocalist allowed it, wrapping his fingers around the back of Die’s neck to hold him close. Ink-stained muscles flexed rhythmically as long fingers moved over rigid flesh, pausing occasionally to run a thumb against the oversensitive slit at the tip and wring a strangled groan out of the guitarist. Kyo’s movements were unhurried, but purposeful and unyielding, drawing Die steadily and inexorably towards his climax until the brunette had no choice but to go toppling over the edge with a short cry. Kyo stilled, and they stayed that way – pressed together, Kyo gripping Die’s cock in one hand and cradling his head in the other – for a very long time, until sunset’s last rays finally seeped from the room and they were left in darkness.

Eventually, Kyo pulled back, moving around behind Die to undo the ropes holding him immobile. Once freed, Die brought his arms forward with a soft huff of discomfort, flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders to try to ease the ache in the limbs. Kyo left again, and Die gathered up his clothing, careful not to get any blood on them as he padded quietly down the hall to the spare bathroom. The hot water was soothing on his sore muscles, but stung his chest viciously as he cleaned up his wounds with infinite care. Once the blood was gone, he found himself staring down at the cuts, fascinated as always by the patterns and designs that had been formed on his chest, each session leaving a unique mark on him. They were horrible, but he had to admit they held a strange sort of beauty as well.

When he turned the water off and stepped out of the shower, and found Kyo leaning against the sink with a contemplative look on his face, it was the first time all evening – the first time in longer than he cared to remember – that Die was actually surprised. These encounters had been following the same formula for _years_ , and Kyo had _always_ retreated to the kitchen to make himself tea while Die cleaned up, dressed, and left in silence. The guitarist stood there, dripping and confused, as the vocalist turned a bottle of wound-dressing cream over and over between his hands thoughtfully. It was the same bottle that was always kept in the cabinet for such occasions.

“Towel off, would you? You’re staining the mat,” Kyo mumbled eventually.

Die looked down and realized that the water running off of him was pink from still-seeping cuts. He obliged quickly, drying off with the plush red towel hanging on the wall – so different from the pure white linens Kyo used in his own bathroom – and wrapping it around his waist in an unusual show of modesty. Somehow, out of that room, he found himself almost self-conscious about his body. Kyo either didn’t notice or didn’t care, straightening and screwing the cap off the bottle as he crossed the small room to the taller man. Die just watched, baffled, as Kyo set to tending his wounds with an uncharacteristically gentle touch, the younger man’s eyebrows knitted in concentration. Silence hung between them, tense and horrible, for several long minutes.

“Why do you keep coming back, Die?” Kyo wondered quietly after a while. “Why do you keep breaking yourself against me?”

Die looked away. “You know why.”

“…You should stop. Stop letting me do this. Stop… _loving_ me.”

And Die smiled sadly, because it was the first occasion he’d ever had to actually refuse Kyo, and even though he was turning away what could have been salvation, he found it came easier to him than he would have imagined. “No.”

Kyo was visibly taken aback. “What… did you just say?”

Die shook his head, moving to get dressed. “I said ‘No,’ Kyo. All evidence to the contrary, you don’t control me – not that much. I accept this because I chose to, not because you force it on me.”

“So, what? We’re just going to do this forever? If you’re not broken, you have to learn to hate me eventually, because I won’t… I’m not going to _change_.” Never realizing he already had, just a little.

“I’ve never asked you to. I still… well… _dum spiro spero_ , right? But I’ll take what I can get.”

“…” Kyo’s hands rolled into fists for a moment, then he deflated, turning away. “I’m not worth this, Die. You don’t deserve-… you shouldn’t have to feel the way I do.”

“Neither should you.”

Kyo’s head snapped around, abruptly angry, but Die was utterly non-confrontational, buttoning up his shirt with careful hands.

“…And what you’re worth to me is my choice.”

Kyo didn’t know what to say to that. He realized, distantly, that it sparked a twinge in a place in him that he could have sworn he’d killed off already. So he left. He went to his kitchen and sat at his table and drank his tea as if he’d never broken their routine. He steadfastly ignored the sounds of Die finishing cleaning himself up, and when the guitarist lingered in the kitchen doorway, watching him, he spared not so much as a single glance for the man. When the front door to his apartment opened and shut, the sound struck him so deeply, his hand flexed around his tea cup and shattered it in his palm. As he watched himself bleed, he realized that Die was going to destroy him. He was going to tear his way into Kyo’s heart, strip away every last defense he’d constructed for himself and latch on like a cancer until he was utterly helpless against the man, vulnerable to a hurt that he could never recover from.

And Kyo was going to allow it.

 

_The things you say, the games you play; dirty magic._

 

 

* * *

The song lyrics (pronouns altered for content) used at the beginning and end _([Dirty Magic](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ZX7cWu8Npo))_ are property of Offspring, and I do not profit from their use.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a response to a challenge over at direngrey_yaoi. Prompt: 'Kyo x Ruki, Die x Reita, Kyo x Die, or Die x Kaoru. Any, either or all of the following: Shibari, cutting, light D/s'


End file.
